Blame
by gyldedfynix
Summary: Yearning for freedom, Fenris finds himself drawn to the woman who might help him achieve it.  He sleeps with her, hoping to quell the desire, but cannot master himself or his emotions, and spirals out of control.   Spoilers for content through Act 2.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Now writing more chapters. I thought it was completed, but my muse tapped on my shoulder once more...

* * *

The lyrium burned. Fenris fought back the urge to scream out, and instead focused on his task. Hawke was beneath him, writing at his exertions, nipples hard from the blood pouring into them. Her body was lit faintly by his blue glow, and she moaned at each one of his thrusts. His hands roved over her body, eager to explore that which had thus far been hidden by varying armors. She was deliciously soft, but he knew of the muscles lurking beneath the surface. She was just as strong a fighter as he, as she had demonstrated earlier that evening.

He had come to apologize for his behavior in the slaver's holding caves. She antagonized him every chance she got, and some days he hated her with all his heart. But that passion had somehow converted itself into a need to dominate her in other ways. He had tried to apologize to her, but she provoked him again-so much so that he was ready to leave. If not for her hand on his arm, he would have left Kirkwall entirely. But she did, and now they were here, emptying their souls into one another.

No. Not their souls. She didn't care for him; she was only using him for what her body needed. They hadn't talked of their fledgling relationship in three years, and suddenly Hadriana had appeared, he had killed her, and Hawke was there to catch the recoil.

Fenris's mind whirled as he was rolled on his back, pinned beneath the Amazonian woman. She bent down and kissed him, her teeth digging into his bottom lip, drawing blood. The voracity with which she kept his pace was captivating, and he found himself lost in the image of her connected to him. She was lithe and supple; her breasts bounced with each undulation of her hips, and a smile spread across her face as he felt himself grow more fervid. His body began to glow brighter, the lyrium on his skin activating with the growing amount of chemicals in his blood. He fought to keep it under control, but Hawke was too tantalizing. He growled and sat up, reaching his hands around her, forcing her to slow her movements.

"Oh, no, you don't get off that easy," she said in a low voice.

"That's what I'm trying to prevent," he replied. A devious glint in her eyes told him she was well aware of his attempts, and that this would be the only breather she would allow. His lips found hers as she pushed him back on the mattress, and resumed her previous endeavors. She tasted sweet, like a different version of the Agreggio Pavali; he felt that if he drank too much of her, there would be the same effect. She was intoxicating, from the way that she walked to the smiles her eyes gave him when she spoke. Even the scent she was emanating was arousing, and he found himself rising to meet each of her movements.

She gasped suddenly, and the elf took the split-second advantage to flip her once more on her back. Taking her right leg in his hand and holding it against her, he sheathed himself entirely with each stroke, willing the torturous anxiety to break and their mad passion to come to climax. Hawke shuddered violently as she came, crying out as the warmth spread through her, and Fenris doubled his efforts in response. Her knees shook, and her breath came raggedly, but her eyes stared resolutely into his, urging him to completion.

The lyrium scorched his skin. He saw a courtyard: a little elven girl playing with a boy. Varania. A man calling for his slave, then slapping him when he came too late. The fire in the hearth with pots above it, and a woman tending the soup. Pain screamed across Fenris's mind. Wine bottles in the cellar. A woman bent over a table, his master behind her, winking at him. Coming into the master's bedchamber, the door closing behind him. Leto. Running. The sun shining down on him in an open field. Hatred. Blood. The lyrium tore at his flesh. He felt wholly open and vulnerable. A sweet ecstasy followed, and then blackness overtook him.

* * *

Fenris woke to find Hawke sleeping peacefully next to him. He swung his legs over the side of her bed, and placed his head in his hands. He had remembered. He had remembered too much. The pain from their coupling coursed in his veins, though it was only a shard of its previous fury. He was at constant war with himself over her. She believed in the good of mages; a fault almost too much to bear. And now she had awakened something in him he did not want to relive. He saw the memories of his previous life. Some before his branding. And now, he did not want to remember. He slowly put on his armor, vacillating between simply leaving, or waiting to explain why he must go. He stood for a moment at the hearth, demanding an answer from the flames.

"Was it that bad?" Hawke's voice pierced his thoughts.

"I'm sorry, it's not... it was fine," he replied quickly. He sighed. Hawke looked at him hurtfully, and started to turn away.

"No," he interrupted her, "that is insufficient. It was better than anything I could have dreamed."

She paused for a moment, brows furrowing, then asked, "your markings. They hurt, don't they?"

"It's not that. I began to remember. My life before. Just flashes," he sighed as he faced away from her. Turning, his expression changed as he made his decision. "It's too much. This is too fast. I cannot... do this."

"We can work through this," she pressed, now sitting up on the bed. Her posture reminded him of their time before, and an image flashed through his mind. He quickly suppressed the thought.

"I'm sorry," he said, waving his hands. "I feel like such a fool. All I wanted was to be happy... just for a little while." He sank, unable to keep his knees from faltering. He turned, sighed, and walked towards the door.

"Forgive me."

* * *

Fenris sat near the hearth in his bedroom, staring into the fire. The familiar clink of metal told him that Isabela was coming up the stairs. The pirate had always visited exactly when she was least wanted, sauntering into his house as if she owned it.

"Brooding, again, are we?" she winked at the elf and sat down in the chair facing him.

"As always," he replied, and faked a smile.

"Now, now, you know I can see right through _that_. You only smile for Hawke, or when you're faking it. And Maker knows, I'm not Hawke."

"That you aren't," he sighed.

The pirate captain raised her eyebrow at the man, and leaned back in the chair, her eyes roving over his figure. She crossed her left leg over her right, opened her mouth to speak, rethought the idea, and shut it again. Garnering no attention from the elf, she doubled back on her original intention.

"So, no chance you'll be moving to Lowtown with me, hmm? The view up here, I've heard, is pretty disappointing. You could do much better downtown," a sly smile spread across Isabela's lips and a mischievous glint danced in her eyes.

"Do not speak about what you do not know. Did you come here to talk, or to torment? Either way, I've no stomach for it tonight," he spat. His eyes flamed with anger, and his lyrium grew hot.

Unperturbed, Isabela rose, clicked her tongue at the feisty elf, and strutted out the door. As soon as he heard her heels stop clicking, Fenris roared and let loose a burst of blue light. Another bottle of the Agreggio soon found itself hurled across the room, shattering into a thousand pieces and dousing the fire in one fell swoop.

He was an idiot. He had found the woman that set him aflame, and promptly cast her aside. He could not go back to her now, nor could he leave her entirely. She had wanted to stay. He had fucked himself. He could no longer hide his deeds behind slavers or the agony of the ritual he had endured. This was his own doing. There was no one to blame but himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris's blade bit into the Saarebas's collar, the eerie sound of metal on metal screeching was almost soundless in the already too chaotic night. The Qunari had attacked, and Isabela was gone. He had always known in his stomach that there was something wrong about her. She was forward, and rightfully so, but the unrestrained nature she kept clashed horribly with her aversion of the Qunari compound. Every time the group entered it, she suddenly wasn't there when they turned around.

Now they all knew why. Fenris swung his greatsword in a wide arc, halving his first victim, an Arvaarad, and splitting the midsections of the two remaining Karashoks. Arrows then found their ways into the eyes of Fenris's current attackers, courtesy of Bianca.

"There's my girl!" Varric shouted, barely audible over the din of clashing swords and battle cries. Fenris stole a glance at Hawke, busy with slicing limbs off her foes with her own greatsword. She handled the heavy weapon as if it were a butter knife, cleanly rending flesh from bone and drenching herself in qunari blood. Her hair dripped red as she pulled herself up from her battle stance, using her sword as leverage. She wiped her hand across her face, leaving a dark crimson mark directly across her nose underneath her eyes. Hawke looked at Fenris as she did so, a small smile gracing her lips, and she raised an eyebrow. Settling the greatsword behind her shoulders, she slowly pulled her gaze away, as if she were loathe to have him stay where he was. She was taunting him, torturing him with her eyes and their suggestion.

Fenris quickly looked down, mind distracted by more pleasant memories. He fought to keep control over his body; the lyrium threatened to act, and his blood flow dramatically increased. He strode past her, aware of her stare, and walked up the steps to the courtyard in front of her uncle's house. More qunari were currently engaging in a battle with armor-clad men. But these were not city guard. They had more purpose. A lightning bolt flashed past Fenris as Merrill cast one of her spells. The arc passed from enemy to enemy, stunning them all briefly, and allowing Hawke's team to enter with an advantage. They quickly dispatched of the qunari, Fenris glowing brightly as he reached inside the Saarebas to crush his heart.

"You have our sincere thanks. This attack was... most unexpected," the apparent leader of their temporary allies said to Hawke. Fenris half-listened to their conversation; he was more interested in regaining his composure. He recently had begun enjoying the violence of his current life. He reveled in the fact that when he took another's life, his felt more at peace-the constant anger within him abated to a dull roar.

"Grey Wardens. Here?" Hawke asked of her companions.

"Must be something big if they're in Kirkwall. No darkspawn here, though," Varric commented.

"Hmm," Hawke muttered as she walked down the steps towards the bazaar. An arrow grazed her ear, the elven supporter from whence it came cried out in delight. A second later, he was choking on his own blood, Fenris's sword neatly lodged his chest. She was bleeding from her ear, though with her blood-soaked hair and armor, one could not tell which was hers and which was her enemy's. A single arc of her blade cut down three of the elven archers, and sliced the left knee tendon in the Sten guarding the group. Varris was busy holding the back line with Merrill-the two warriors were faced with the giant qunari.

Hawke sidled up to Fenris. Their hips touched as they formed a wall of steel and aggression. The Sten roared and charged the pair, but hit nothing. Both using their giant blades for balance, they swung out from their previous spot, circling to cleave the powerful back and shoulder muscles of their opponent. The qunari dropped his weapons, and turned on the couple, dropping his massive, horned head. They both saw the opening. He favored his injured leg, turning his mad charge into more of a loping gait, horribly comical and grotesque. His blood-painted body was marred with fresh additions: finger trails of his felled opponents, splatters from his successful kills, and swordtip slices from the failed reach of his enemies. The free run of blood from his wounds drenched the ground; a mix of sand, pebbles, and blood turned the terrain to a dark stew. A foot from the two, the qunari saw his prizes shift positions. Hawke turned her body into Fenris's, her greatsword angled behind her. His was planted firmly in the earth, blade faced just so to form a guillotine. The two swords rang together, their sweet music echoing through the square as the Sten fell to the ground in two pieces.

He held her for what seemed like forever. She was dirt-smeared and smelled of blood and death, but she was exquisite. Hawke looked into the elf's eyes, searching.

"We should move on," she said after a moment, wrenching her sword free of his. She took a bit of soft leather from the downed qunari's armor and wiped its owner's blood off her blade. Throwing down the used cloth, she placed her greatsword back into its rightful place, and walked towards Hightown.

* * *

Fenris stood near the viscount's chair, muscles taut with anxiety as Hawke circled the Arishok. She had accepted his duel challenge on behalf of Isabela. Now, he feared, she had doomed herself. Yes, she was an experienced fighter. Yes, she could wield a greatsword almost as good as he. But she was no qunari battlemaster.

He watched as she parried and counterattacked, dodged and used her Mabari as a distraction to heal herself. She tore at the Arishok with her blade, cutting him in places that would've felled most men. Her flexibility was her advantage. She could contort her body in such a way that the qunari blade missed her supple figure every time. But she was getting tired. Her movements were slowing down. It was everything he could do not to intervene. He knew the Qun and its demands. He knew they would be hopeless against the whole of the horde in this room. She must succeed.

Hawke used her greatsword to keep herself steady as the Arishok stared at her. He was unflagging, correctly guessing her every move, and countering exactly as he should. She had to finish the battle quickly, or she would fall.

Hawke stood up straight and stared defiantly at the qunari. Appearing as peaceful as if she were ordering her morning breakfast, she stood in the middle of the hall. Fenris clenched his fists tightly, the sharp points of his finger guards digging into the soft skin of his wrists. The Arishok smirked, and raised his axe towards her.

"Hawke, you do me too much honor to grant me a clean kill. _Panahedan, basalit-an._" He charged.

The human jumped, leaving her greatsword standing between two stones in the floor. She turned, and grabbing the horns of the Arishok, altered his center of gravity, driving the great warrior into the ground. He slid a few feet, before perfectly aligning himself with her cemented sword. Just as his brows furrowed, realizing her intentions, the blade slid between his neck vertebrae. A fresh coating a qunari blood adorned the warrior woman, who was currently picking herself up off the giant man. She drew up her greatsword, and leaned on the hilt, crossing her right leg over her left, one hand on her hip.

"Go home, qunari. Take your relic. Leave everything else."

"We will be back, _basvaanad_" one said as the group left. Hawke watched them leave, breathing heavily. The carpet beneath her grew darker.

Fenris rushed to her side, holding her by the waist, supporting her full weight almost immediately. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she went limp. He gently lay her on the ground, propping her head up on the bottom stair.

"Witch! Get the healer," he spat at his fellow elf companion. Merrill, too afraid to comment on his language, rushed out of the room towards Darktown.

"Great, now I have to have her death on my conscience, too? Why did I ever come back?"

Fenris leapt at the woman, who had only just recently rejoined their group. He glowed brightly, his hand inches from reaching inside her chest and killing her. His voice was low and threatening, almost growling at the woman as he spoke.

"You should hope she does not die. I will make you suffer more than I ever have if she dies." His eyes narrowed at the pirate, and he had every inclination he looked exactly like the wild dog to which Anders related him. A flicker of fear showed in her eyes, but was immediately suppressed, the cool demeanor glossing over any emotion she might have showed.

"You are welcome to try that _fisting_ trick with me anytime. My offer always stands," Isabela retorted, seeing the accession of the two mages behind him. Her eyebrow raised at his acknowledgement of the distraction, and she smiled.

"We will talk later," he said hurriedly, and went back to Hawke's side.

"Oh, I'll come," she muttered under her breath.

* * *

Fenris left Hawke's mansion late that night, once he was sure of her recovery. Anders had begrudgingly let him stay in the room, but only once he had forced the elf to admit that he had asked for the mage's help. Fenris enjoyed the fact that Hawke now lived so near to him and further away from the other characters in their circle. He had always enjoyed Varric's company, but there was no love lost between him and the rest of the group. Merrill was impossibly young and naive, Anders was an arrogant abomination, Aveline was a tight-ass, and Isabela...

He saw her leaning on the wall outside his mansion, and remembered his threat from earlier.

"She'll be fine, in case you were wondering," he barked, entering his home. Isabela followed behind, sauntering in as if she had all the time in the world to converse with him. She said nothing, and lounged in her favorite chair across from the benches near the hearth. He stood, taking long pulls from a wine bottle before he had formulated the exact words he wanted her to hear.

"In a different life, I would've found you charming. You're free to do what you wish, with whom you wish, whenever you wish. It's an ideal that I have held for years now," he paused, taking another pull of the drink. "But I would never put anyone at risk of death for my faults or actions. That you would do so to a person you respect! You are no better than a blood mage, taking power where you can, damning the consequences and those who fall in your wake. You are undeserving of her!"

Isabela smiled widely, and crooned, "Ah, look at Hawke's pet wolf. You're still a slave; just had to find a new master. She is a pretty mistress, isn't she?" Her eyes danced not only from the fire in the hearth, but her own mischievousness. Fenris threw down the bottle, offering his own blue light into the mix as he faced his antagonist.

"Is this what she did to get you under her thumb? Rile you up, and then smooth you down? I could do that," her hands found their way underneath his chestplate. They were impossibly warm, and Fenris found it difficult to concentrate. His hands clenched, and he suddenly found it highly impractical to be wearing his finger guards. He unlaced the armor, dropping it to the floor. The clang of metal on stone was jarring, and woke Fenris to Isabela's current objective with his pants.

Grabbing her by the neck, he twisted the woman to the ground, his knee on her breastbone. But the woman had hidden strength, and flipped him on his back with her legs. Her lips planted on his; her tongue explored his mouth. She tasted like fire, and his blood boiled. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pushing her away. He gasped for breath. He couldn't focus. In an instant, she was on him again, forcing her way with her burning lips.

A woman in the courtyard, calling for her son. A little elven girl, running towards the master's door, searching for her brother. Crying. Leto.

A scream erupted from Fenris, and he threw Isabela off him. "Out!" he roared. For the first time since the elf could remember, Isabela looked truly scared. She quickly recouped her things, and walked out the door.

He had remembered more. His previous life. Things he did not want to remember. At least not with her. Not with the selfish pirate wench. Suddenly disgusted with his surroundings, Fenris left his mansion and walked into the cool night air.

"Fenris? I was just coming to see how you were holding up," Varric's amiable voice calmed the elf down more than he thought possible.

"She was fine... when I last checked. It's been a few hours."

Varric chuckled, and raised an eyebrow at him. The lie had not been approved, then.

"I see. A lot will come from tonight's events. You sticking around to see what happens?"

"I still have business with Danarius."

"I'll take that as a yes, then," the dwarf snickered, and said, "see you around, Broody."

It was not Danarius that kept him here. Varric knew that. Fenris sighed, and tightened the laces on his finger guards, and slowly walked back towards Hawke's mansion.


	3. Chapter 3

The Qunari left after their Arishok had been killed. Isabela griped about her relic being taken from her every chance she got. Fenris had even started going to his weekly card games less often because of her whining. She had stayed her distance from him since his outburst, but the sly looks she gave him told her that her thirst had not slaked. She was only biding her time.

"There. I won again," she said for the fourth time that night.

"But how? I don't see how you win all the time," Merrill complained.

"I cheat, kitten. I thought I told you this once before. I'm going to have to stop giving you back my winnings if you insist on betting things you should not be losing," Isabela admonished.

Fenris never bet much on the hands with her, failing to see how playing with a person who refused to lose could be at all pleasurable. This particular evening, he had not played at all, choosing instead to nurse a cup of the watery ale in the corner near the fire. Varric had come down from his suite in the Inn, and was retelling his story of how the Champion of Kirkwall defeated the Arishok to any who would listen.

"I tell you, she reached into the Fade and pulled him apart with two monstrous hands!" the dwarf had his hands apart as if he were sizing her appendages.

The elf laughed to himself at the thought of Hawke dealing with a demon to beat the Arishok. What she had done was fantastic enough without adding the Fade into the storyline. However, Varric had not purchased a mug of ale for himself in the past month, so the embellishments made sense financially. Hawke had enjoyed the press thus far, though she refused to comment on any of the actual details, and only smirked at any inquirers before walking away.

Kirkwall was enthralled with the Champion. A statue of her standing over the Arishok's decapitated head was even being created in the docks near where the qunari had camped. It was fitting for the inherently brutal city with such a fine outward appearance. The belly of the city, though, was quietly rumbling. Rumors of unrest had begun to surface from Darktown: secret meetings and paranoid glances towards any of those who were unknown in the undercity. Anders had not been heard from except for the occasional mentioning from Hawke of his visiting her. He seemed to have retreated further into his clinic: his safe world where no one would touch him as long as he stayed out of sight.

Fenris had never trusted the man. The abomination. Even letting the thing live was a constant struggle on the elf's part, and he dreaded seeing him beside Hawke whenever she picked him up for a mission. Except concerning Merrill's status, the two had never agreed on anything, including Hawke herself. The mage had never accepted that Hawke had chosen him, and took every opportunity to incite rebellion on her behalf. Fenris had greatly enjoyed the time recently that had been free of his sarcastic remarks and unending glares.

"I did what you asked, elf," the throaty voice of the dwarf brought Fenris back from his thoughts. "An old contact of mine is going through Qurinas soon, and should be able to check up on your... situation."

"Thank you. I would appreciate it if this would not go past us."

"Of course I'll tell you the story!" Varric was already halfway through the introduction again for a new patron by the time the words had left Fenris's lips. Satisfied with the progress of the night, he downed the last of the liquid left in the stone mug and left the stench of the clamorous inn. The night air was still cool, tinged with the leftover smell of the ironworks: Kirkwall's infantile attempt to rebuild their precious city.

"You should come back. The streets aren't safe at night, you know. You might get mugged or something," the words washed over him like molten gold, and filled him with both a hate and a fire he could not understand. The pirate's hand took his, and pulled him back towards the bar. Fenris relented, but leaned against the wall of the establishment instead, refusing to look at her as she traced the markings on his hands.

"Where's your other pet elf? The one who actually encourages your companionship?" he snapped, glowering at her in his peripheral vision.

"Oh, she said she had to do something with a mirror. Knowing Merrill, scrubbing grime off an old Dalish thumbtack would be more exciting than anything I could offer. Are they red? Your scarf is red, and you seem like the type of person who likes their clothes to match." Her hands had moved towards his thighs to reach under his tunic.

"Have I not told you that I am not interested? For someone who seems to so handily find pleasurable company, you too often find yourself in the presence of those who do not want you. Desist, woman. It will be the last time I ask."

"That wasn't a question," Isabela squinted her eyes at the elf ever so slightly, and rested her weight on her back leg, folding her arms across her chest. "You can't have asked if it wasn't a question."

Fenris looked at the woman finally. The moonlight shone on her bandana, causing the silver thread to glisten, giving the effect of a sea lit by stars. The firelight from the torches danced in her eyes, and reminded him briefly of her visit three weeks ago. He had found himself, in the time since, woken by thoughts of fire, lyrium burning his skin. Fenris clenched his hands, and furrowed his brows, fighting the change that was already happening.

"You have a tell, you know. Your eyes get... hard," she said suggestively. She slowly made her way towards him, placing one booted foot in front of the other. Her hips swung slightly more than necessary, the white fabric of her impossibly short tunic swayed with each step. "It's why I always win against you," she said as she reached him. "But you've stopped playing. Why is that? I'm the best there is to play with."

"I..." Words were quickly failing him as her scent reached his nose. "I do not... like losing," he said slowly as his hands reached around her figure. His fingers felt the soft material of her corset, the space between the ribbing gave slightly as he pressed on the areas, pulling the woman closer to him. His skin burned; his body ached. Her fingers were in his hair, pulling his head down towards her, nearer to the smoldering lips. They touched.

A loud outburst of shrieks came suddenly from the room behind the wall. Varric must have been to the point where Hawke severed the Arishok's arm. It did not matter. Fenris was lost in the woman before him, consumed by her flame. His blood pounded in his veins; his mind swam. He was held in her, in that fire that would not quell, no matter how he tried to ignore it.

He grasped at her fervently, longing for the fire to devour him entirely, to absolve him of his want. Her tongue explored slowly, stroking his, flitting behind his teeth and then pulling away entirely, forcing him to search it out. She giggled as he nipped at her, growling softly as she retreated from his advances, compelling him to completely encompass her with his arms.

A cold sweat formed on the back of his neck. He paid it no heed. Nothing could stop this now, not even himself. Isabela pulled away, determined to direct him towards a more private venue. Hightown was far too removed for their current need, and neither desired romance. Finding a deserted, doorless, and dim back alley was not difficult in the late hours, and Fenris pushed the woman against the wall, forcing his tongue in her mouth again, eager for her heat once more. With little difficulty, she had already liberated the bindings on his tunic and greaves, and was guiding him to her core.

Her fingers encircled him, squeezing and pulling gently as he delayed his entrance, making her shiver with need and anticipation. He directed his attention to her neck, sucking and nipping at the tender flesh just under her jawbone. She gasped. Fenris lifted the woman to him, stepping forward with his left leg to better brace their joining. His mind blazed as he felt her, a delicious sense of power and domination creeping up his spine. He pressed her against the wall, thrusting into her with as much force as he could manage, short of killing her. Her legs wrapped around him, helping to bring him towards her with each of his movements, intensifying his rage and passion. He bit into her mouth, drawing blood; each breath burned. Isabela's nails dug into his hips, and he clawed at them. He tore them from his sides, and pinned them against the wall. She was his; unable to do anything without his bidding. He growled at her, brows furrowing from the exertion and the climbing need to utterly conquer her. He fucked her harder, faster, blind wrath driving him to impale her against the hard stone of the alley's walls. She cried out, shivering at her climax. He did not stop. He did not slow.

A groan emitted from his throat as he began to taste the sweet halls of oblivion. He kissed her again, reaching into her with his tongue, yearning for the fire to finally burst. His orgasm seared through him, immediately ceasing his movements as his body released its desire. He breathed finally, gasping at the night air that was thick with the smoke from the Inn's fires. Isabela was already back on her feet, and had cinched his belt about his replaced tunic.

She winked at him and sauntered back to the bar, sucking on her bruised fingers. Fenris stood in the alleyway, unable to move, staring vacuously after the woman.

* * *

Fenris threw the wine glass at the wall, adding to the pile of the already impressive amount of shattered glass in his dilapidated mansion. He hunched over his legs, bracing his elbows on his knees as he rested his head on his folded hands. The red scarf on his wrist glared at him, reminding him of what he'd done.

He scoffed at it, and rose from his chair. Swearing softly in Tevinter, he paced around the room, raising his hands in frustration as he went through the events of the evening. She had taunted him, and won. Even as he had wanted to master her, he had ended up being the slave once more. He had succumbed to his blind lust for her, the madness within him conquering reason. He had failed at control. He was not free.

Fenris walked out of his usual room and leaned on the railing at the top of the stairs. His ears found the sound of shifting armor, and directed his whirling mind to look up.

"Hawke," he greeted stiffly, and donned a tepid smile.

"You are obviously upset at something. Or someone. Again. So I'll be quick," she stopped in the middle of the room below him, hand on her hip. "Anders told me of your insisting to stay by my side while I recovered. I remember your face, and I thank you for being there. I..." she faltered, and looked down at her feet.

"You are welcome. I would not see you hurt alone," he interrupted, voice softening from its original acerbity. "Are you feeling better?" he asked.

"Yes," she sighed. "He is... quite the healer," she laughed softly and looked away from him, suddenly very interested in the floor pattern.

Fenris's heartbeat quickened as he made his way down the steps towards her. When he reached the bottom of the staircase, she looked at him, and he stopped.

"If you have found..." he hesitated. His emotions played with him. He wanted to tell her everything, to reveal all he had done and felt. But he was also ashamed. The disgrace of his recent actions won out against his chimerical inclination.

"You should go; I would not want to keep you," he said and turned around on the stair.

"No, Fenris," she started towards him. He looked at her, his eyes full of remorse and sadness. "Anders and I..." she stopped, searching for a reaction from him. "No," she said finally. He nodded, eyebrows losing their tension. He could not respond, and walked up the left bank of stairs. He paused at the apex, resting his right hand on the railing, and sighed deeply.

"I am glad to see that you are better. I am yours when you have need of me," he stated solemnly. Without turning to see her expression, he walked back into his room, standing just beyond the doorway. He heard her footsteps retreat after a moment, slow and heavy-footed. Perhaps she waited for his reappearance.

He couldn't. He cursed himself for his weakness; first for leaving her, and then for succumbing to his baser desires. He did not deserve her. The scarf on his right wrist mocked him. He had failed at his quest for freedom. He had failed as his attempt to conquer his fears. He had failed at being with the woman he loved. He sank onto the bench facing the hearth, and slammed his fist into it. He had only himself to blame.


	4. Chapter 4

Kirkwall had slowly been rebuilding herself over the past year. Her façade had been fixed; the embellishments showing her appreciation of the Champion saving her from the night of Qunari insurgence had been created and proudly displayed. But her heart was still broken. The Gallows was the mirror she could not persuade to stay silent. Tranquil had been appearing at an increased rate, templars roamed the streets more freely, and Knight-Commander Meredith had unofficially assumed the role as viscount.

Many inwardly opposed the woman, most of Hawke's companions included. Aveline fought every day to keep her status known and the people aware of the city guard's existence. But it was becoming more difficult each day. The Chantry refused to take sides, or even comment on most events, and the people noticed. Merrill and Anders had retreated to their respective homes, surfacing only when absolutely necessary, or safe within the confines of another's home. The Champion had been busy with rebuilding her life since the death of her mother, but people clamored for her presence at every event in the city. Though she never had officially taken sides against the Knight-Commander, her actions almost always followed those that helped the mages of the city.

Isabela disappeared for months at a time, coming back supremely drunk and angry that she had still not been pursued by Castillon. She picked fights wherever she could, antagonizing those around her. Her room at the Inn had always been kept open for her, paid months in advance, though she almost never slept there, even when she was in town. She had found refuge in gathering women with similar pasts, and teaching them how to survive on their own. Most of her disciples followed too closely to Isabela's actions for Aveline's liking, and one bar fight in particular had attracted too much attention to the pirate woman's antics.

Since the death of his brother, Varric had assumed the role of family head, though his daily lifestyle had changed little. He spent most of his time in business deals and talkings with certain members of Kirkwall's notables. These, of course, included anyone who might threaten those that the dwarf cared for, and unsavory characters were the ones most often walking into Varric's office. Hawke's annihilation of certain gangs in past years, however, had made life easier on the dwarf, and he had recently taken up an interest on Fenris's behalf. Although little progress had been made, it had strengthened the bond between the two, and they routinely found themselves in each other's company, either at the Hanged Man or Fenris's mansion.

The elf busied himself with the events of the city, discreetly helping the templars when he could, taking odd jobs as a mercenary when he could not. He had slowly begun to host a card night as his mansion each week. The first occurrence had happened by accident. He had invited Donnic over for diamondback when Varric had dropped by to talk of other events. The dwarf had then invited Merrill, who had gotten much better against her failed attempts with Isabela, and consequently won the most often. Hawke had even shown up a few times, though she rarely gambled, and instead observed her friends, watching and participating in conversation rather than the game itself.

Fenris and Isabela had settled into an unspoken agreement that revolved around saying as little as possible about their night eleven months ago. They both knew it had been an occurrence that would not, and should not be repeated. The thirst had been slaked, and their need for each other was dead. He refused to speak to Hawke about their relationship, but his feelings for her had only grown stronger. The elf found himself looking towards her more often than he meant whenever he was in her company, something Merrill teased him about to no end. She routinely commented on his "puppy eyes" towards the woman, and went into giggling fits whenever Hawke showed up to their gatherings.

This particular evening, he was very much enjoying himself. Hawke was more open to talking frankly with him, and about subjects that they had not dared broach in some time. While he still shied away from speaking about topics of a personal nature, he felt more at ease with her than he had in months. Her own body language was more relaxed, and she twirled her wine glass in her hands as she had before. Her eyes glinted and shone and smiled darkly when they were directed towards him. It was as if they shared some secret, an untold understanding of each other that no one else had. And no one else could take.

Isabela walked in then, plopping herself directly down beside the elf, smiling brightly at his lukewarm reception. She put her arm around his waist, resting her hand on his thigh. Fenris removed her hand immediately, garnering a scoff and a look that feigned surprise from the pirate woman, but told everything of their past relations. He saw Hawke's reaction to the instance, and flicked his eyes in her direction, obvious apology on his features. Sighing, he left the raucous room, and waited in the main room of his mansion, just below the stairs.

Hawke did not follow him.

Fenris had gone over the events of that first month after the Arishok's defeat more than he considered healthy. It had been months since he had been with, and promptly rejected, Hawke, due to his own cowardice. He had harbored that hate for himself, and he now realized, it had manifested into a desire for that which he considered to be the woman who embodied freedom. Fenris was characterized by shackles: his past plagued him, his anger consistently boiled over, the unbidden nature of his rage morphed into quixotic ideas and actions, and he was trapped by his guilt over past events.

Laughter rose from his bedroom, Varric's voice rising above all the others in the retelling of his brother's stories of nugwranglers in Orzammar. He imagined the dwarf imitating the actions needed to wrestle the squealing, oversized rodent to the ground, and his heart lifted slightly. Deciding that there would be no resolution tonight, he gathered his strewn emotions and started up the staircase.

"You could have told me," the jet black hair of the Champion covered her features as she leaned on the railing, though her hands were white with restraint. She turned her head to look at him, eyes burning with feeling as she glared at him through her hair. The elf's heart beat faster, and his face grew hot. He had almost been relieved that she had not followed him, and he wanted nothing more than be free of his guilt.

"A year, and nothing. I ask nothing from you, of you, more than what you would offer. But to see her..." she growled at her frustration, and gripped the railing even harder.

"I should go. It is obvious that I have no place here," she turned stiffly and started down the stairwell. Her hands clenched.

"I understood, Fenris," she sighed, and stopped, her back still towards him. "I knew that pursuing something-someone-that was broken would do neither of us any good. So I let it alone, hoping that you would work it out on your own. But now I see just what you wanted."

"I do not love her; it was not-"

"You do not love," she stated flatly, turning her head towards him, piercing him with her gaze.

He shut his mouth, suddenly hot and ashamed, and bent his head. He had buried his feelings so many times over, and the remembrance of her touch and his betrayal was becoming too much for him to stand. He wanted to run, to be free of his regret and remorse. He did not have to: Hawke was already halfway across the room before he realized she had even moved.

Dejected, Fenris stared at the doorway behind which she had disappeared for much longer than he had planned. A hand on his arm alerted him to the dwarf's presence.

"Women, huh? Never could figure them out myself. Never saw much to them past their obvious distractions and-rarely-their skill in a fight. Her, though," nodding his head in the direction of the woman who had just left. "Her, I'd never let leave my sight." The dwarf looked up at him then, a knowing look in his eye.

"What would you suggest?" Fenris asked quietly.

"Flowers and jewelry, usually. For Hawke? New chainmail," he laughed and slapped the elf on the shoulder.

Fenris watched as the rest of his guests left, Isabela included. She stopped briefly at his side, flashed a smile, and kissed his cheek.

"It never would have worked out between us, darling. And I promise to be on my best behavior from now on," she said through a wide grin, unable to hide her glee at his discomfort.

"Amazing that you even remembered me in your long list of conquests," he said derisively.

"Oh, don't start that, or I may change my mind." she clicked her tongue at him and strutted out the door.

With her went a weight from his mind. While they had not acknowledged their brief moments together outwardly, Fenris had since been a bit uncomfortable around the pirate woman. He had not wanted her, or even thought of her since the encounter, and her touch now felt cold and empty. He rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand where she had left her mark. He was free of her, finally. He would never be hers, and she knew it.

He was not absolved of his guilt, however, and his heart was still heavy with the events of the evening. He had to fix this. He had to find some way to prove to Hawke that he... loved her. His brain registered no other word for his feelings. Slowly entering his bedroom, the book he had received on Shartan stared at him from the corner to which he had cast it. The former slave squatted near it, opening its cover. The foreign markings on its pages swirled lazily in his vision. But there was a promise hidden in their depths, a word given in earlier times that might help him with what he sought.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke was the in the foyer. Fenris stood in the great room in front of the stairs, staring into the area ahead of him. He had been unable to muster the courage to come see her since their last exchange. He had started towards her mansion countless times in the past two weeks, but had never completed the journey. Now, she had her back to him, the greatsword on her back gleaming even in the dim light. The armor of the Champion was clean of scratches, a new symbol of Kirkwall's appreciation for her. She itched at the joints; the thin fabric that shielded her from direct contact with the metal had not been worn in yet. She lifted her right arm, testing the movement and design of the armor. Assessing that it was up to par, she dusted the top of her greaves, and turned slightly, starting to pace in the foyer.

Fenris started walking towards her, his footfalls barely creating a sound on the floor. She turned, then, her face catching the light just so. She radiated. Her features became stern as she recognized the elf appearing from the shadows. Stopping her movements, she crossed her arms, and rested her weight on her back leg.

"I got a letter that slavers are setting up shop on the Wounded Coast. I figured that you, particularly, would be interested in making sure their business closes," she said. Her voice was hard, controlled. Her eyebrow rose at his subsequent nod to her, and he settled his own greatsword more comfortably on his back. Her arms dropped as she opened the door, bright sunlight filling the small room. She shone more brightly than anything he could ever remember, exiting his derelict mansion in a manner that seemed to demand regale.

Varric and Anders were waiting outside, marking the first time that she had ever included him in a mission last. Usually, he and Hawke were the ones making the rounds to see if a companion of theirs was interested in a mission. Apparently, his betrayal had hurt her even more than she had let on.

"Let's go," she said harshly to the others. Her expression had not changed upon seeing her friends, and she walked out in front of the group, the three men finding their normal positions behind their leader. Anders glared at the elf, obviously blaming him for Hawke's dramatic mood change. Fenris returned the gaze with one just as harsh, glowing slightly at the mage, as if to remind him that he held himself in check, and Anders should do the same. The latter man scoffed, and turned his head away again.

"I can't imagine what Hawke sees in you," the mage said once Hawke was out of earshot, his voice spiteful.

"It is done. Leave it be," Fenris returned bitterly. Anders balked, unable to silence the gasp that came from his surprise.

"Well, good," he said after a minute. "I always knew she had some sense," he added.

"Do not make light of this," the elf snapped. He sighed, deciding whether to continue. His fists clenched, his finger guards digging into the skin on his palms.

"Leaving was the hardest thing I've ever done," he said finally, exasperated. His voice had softened, though it was still forceful towards the man. Fenris wondered if the mage could even understand what had happened between the two, if he even cared to know the whole story. Upon meeting the elf, Anders had immediately classified him as a hated acquaintance, acceptable only in forced company. Fenris had found the relationship quite comfortable and satisfactory. He would never question Hawke's faith in the mage, but he often wondered if his healing abilities warranted her trust.

* * *

The quartet made their way out of Hightown and arrived at the Wounded Coast mid-afternoon. The sun cast a deep orange glow on the ground, leading one to believe it could catch on fire, only wanting for a spark. They found the cave with little difficulty, having traversed the entirety of the area many times over in the past few years. Fenris immediately recognized the slaver holds as being recently active, the telltale stench of mistreated humans and elves combined with the markings of dragged chains was almost enough to make him sick. His skin pricked and the hair stood upright on his arms and neck. Something was not right.

"Something's here," he said quietly. "Slavers, yes. But also something else."

"We'll find whatever it is, and destroy it," Hawke said, her harsh tone jarring against the silence of the cave.

The next two corridors held nothing other than a few traps, which Varric quickly disabled.

"Flamethrowers? They would rather have their slaves die than escape?" the dwarf asked.

"Flame scares most of them back towards the cells. Most do not question their imprisonment, anyway, content to serve their masters. They know of no other way to live," Fenris answered.

"Seems an awful lot of trouble to only scare them," Anders offered. The elf silently agreed; flamethrowers of this magnitude were not just for show.

"Let's go," Hawke said.

A hand rose from the ground, bone and ragged flesh coming to life as commanded by its master. A whole body compiled itself, its fellows joining it in groups of three. Some had bows, others had swords. Hawke decapitated the first of the bunch, Fenris concurrently slicing off the arms of the archers behind her. Anders shot a fireball at the first of the horde, burning the flesh and scorching bone, effectively melting his opponent into a puddle on the floor.

"Blood magic," Varric said, pulling a bolt from the eye socket of a corpse he had felled. "Tevinter slavers, then."

"It would seem so," Fenris replied. Something didn't feel right to him. He had known the blood magic needs of the magisters, felt its power around him, as a part of him. The energy here was darker, more powerful. The lyrium burned on his skin. Fenris involuntarily shrugged, wanting to shake the feeling. He settled his greatsword behind his back, catching a glance at the mage. His eyes flashed blue, then subsided back into the normal brown irises of the man. Quickly looking away, he furrowed his brows, and wondered just what the mage was hiding.

"We should move on," he said, walking further away from the apostate as the group progressed through the caves. Finding a rhythm next to the woman, Fenris stole small glances at her, attempting to gauge her mood. Her smile had disappeared, the normal laughter in her eyes was gone. She walked stiffly, eyes roving aimlessly for threats while her mind was obviously occupied with some other topic. Her boot kicked a rock, and she tensed, mind diverting all previous thought and forcing her to focus on the ground in front of her. She relaxed when no immediate threat presented itself, and she turned her head to look at the elf.

"Can I help you?" she asked. The words stung him, and he fell behind, crestfallen. Anders chuckled at him, and strode closer to Hawke. Fenris found Varric's eyes; the dwarf shrugged and shuffled along behind the other two. Varric's look had said it all: _you had your chance._

Another swarm of undead forced Fenris to focus on other matters for the moment. His greatsword cleaved through two skeleton archers, shattering their bones and leaving them in a heap on the dusty stone floor. Shades appeared next, their sinewy black forms gliding along the floor. They clawed at Fenris, further scratching the iron feathers on his shoulders. Suddenly, a fireball flew past his head, engulfing his current attacker, almost singeing the elf. He shot a glare at Anders, who only shrugged and grinned before directing his attention to healing Varric.

The ground boiled then, turning red, then orange, and finally yellow. A roar erupted from the ground as the Rage Demon came forth. The heat was almost too much to bear as the monster tore its way through the group. Varric backed his way into a corner, using Bianca as a battering ram if the demon came within reach. Hawke swung her greatsword. It split the air as it came down, and she cursed loudly. The Rage Demon ignored her, honing in on the former slave. He crouched, swinging madly upward with his sword as it came toward him, cleanly slicing off an arm that subsequently melted into a puddle and sped back its host, reforming in an instant. Angered by bloodlust and regret, he rammed into the demon, forcing it backward and knocking it down. Fenris raised his weapon, and plunged it deep into the demon's head, kneeling into the thrust. Sound from the monster ceased, and it fell back beneath the floor. Panting, Fenris stood back up, and turned around.

Hawke was staring at him. Anders was currently attributing her injuries, incanting softly whenever he found one. She eyed him curiously, a glimmer in her eye changing her expression from complete complacency to one full of an unreadable emotion. She winced suddenly, and looking down, smacked Anders lightly across the top of his head, scolding him for pressing too hard on the side of her stomach.

"Heal, not inflict more pain, please," she admonished. The tone in her voice was lighter, however, and the biting edge of her earlier conversation had diminished slightly. She grimaced at the mage, breathing in sharply at his ministrations.

"There will be more," Fenris warned of the mage, "we should not tarry."

"Done," he replied, standing. "I trust you are well enough to continue, then?" Anders eyed Fenris speculatively. The elf only replied with a noncommittal grunt before walking to the only other door in the room, following Hawke closely. The small hallway emptied into a large room. Its dome ceiling was missing tiles, some of which had just recently fallen and shattered on the stone floor. Tables were scattered around the room, and stands with manacles were still slick with congealed blood. In the far corner of the room, he could hear whispering. A woman, crouched low, was bent over a body in the shadows, feverishly rocking back and forth. Fenris tensed.

A scream. He felt the rush remembered from his time in Tevinter. Energy surged through the room, coursed through him, around him. He felt light, appeased, even content. But his lyrium flared. The marks burned him, tore through his mind, ladening him with pain. He dropped to the floor. His head fell between his hands. The cool floor was comforting to his palms. This wasn't right. A wave of ecstasy washed over him. He warred against it. No. This part of his life was over, behind him. He had started again. He had a new life. The power dragged him down. He closed his eyes. No. He wasn't part of this anymore. He was free.

Fenris fought against the pain, against the manipulation of the magister's spell. The lyrium they had cursed him with helped him, kept him from immediately succumbing to their magic. But he was losing. He heard voices, shouting. He could not see-could not bear to raise his head, or else he would lose focus. He was fighting. He must not give in. The magic was too strong, too close. He had no hope. He was lost. As he fell into oblivion, he faintly heard Hawke's voice.

"You can have him."


	6. Chapter 6

Memory rushed back to Fenris. Hawke left him. She turned him in. She betrayed him.

He was being taken somewhere. His mind burned; he could not see, could not move for the pain in his body. The cart in which he was lying jostled over every bump in the road; it felt as if he were being crushed by hurt and emotion. His memory harassed him, reminding him of recent events. The cave and the woman crouching. The agony and the ecstasy. The immense guilt. The contempt Hawke had dealt him. Her complacency to his existence on the mission had hurt worse. She had included him, so she said, specifically because of the chance to eradicate another band of slavers, yet she had ignored him the entire time. And then she...

Fenris breathed sharply inward as a particularly large rock made the cart jump up, him with it. Unfortunately, the elf came back down hard, hitting his head rather roughly, and his mind spun. Thoughts became more difficult, and his stomach twisted, threatening to expel what little contents it had left. Blackness closed in around the crimson of his eyelids, and he drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

The entire left side of his body ached. Small cuts on his arm stung as somebody pressed a cold compress over them. Fenris dreaded opening his eyes. He never wanted to see Tevinter again. He didn't want to serve wine and be a bodyguard to someone who valued him only for the things that had been done to him. He didn't want to remember what it was like to be helpless.

He groaned, alerting whomever was tending his wounds that he was awake. They rushed out of the room, leaving the stinging cloth on his arm. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and sat up, removing the wet compress in the process. The room was familiar. All of his armor, save his breeches, was piled neatly in a chair in the corner of the room, near a desk. The blood-red carpet on the floor was detailed with gold borders. The bed, on which he now sat, was flanked by two wardrobes below two tall windows. A fire burned merrily in the hearth to his right. The Amell family shield. His eyes darted to the doorway, where a familiar mabari watched him there. The dog barked then, his master sidling her way past his immovable frame.

"How are you feeling?" Hawke asked of Fenris. Her expression was concerned, and her brows furrowed as his lack of response. "When we walked into that room, I saw you collapse to the floor. You couldn't hear me, you didn't respond. I..." she stopped and walked closer to the foot of the bed. "I was worried. I don't know what happened."

Fenris couldn't reply. His mind spun. None of it made sense. He had heard her voice. He had heard her give him up to the magister. Hawke eyed him, and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing him.

"There was a magister there. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen. She sacrificed her slaves, her husband, her own children. She was at the end of her life, and yet she craved the power from blood magic even more. She wanted your markings. Your lyrium. She heard of you from Hadriana, and decided that you would give her untold amounts of power. That you would save her," Hawke said. She started pacing around the room, retelling the events as if she could not contain them.

"She had cut her wrists; the blood flowed freely from them, circling in the air around her and permeating the room. I felt trapped, as if she held the key to everything, and I must succumb to her. Her voice was like honey, lulling me into believing her, persuading me to give you to her. You were writhing on the floor, screaming," she clenched her fists, and stepped rather forcefully on the curling edge of the carpet.

"I didn't know what to do. I couldn't bear to see you like that. It was as if..." she stopped, searching for the words, "rage itself rose within me, compelled me to stop her doing those things to you. I didn't want her to have control over you, to do things to you that you didn't wish done. Seeing you in such pain," she returned his gaze with one of anguish and concern, "it tore me apart," she said softly.

"But I heard you," Fenris whispered, unwilling to believe anything than what he remembered, "you said that she could have me."

"No!" she exclaimed, stopping her stride and turning to lean forward on the edge of bed. "I would _never_ let her take you! You are..." her eyes pleaded with him. He stared back at her, defiant. He heard her. His mind kept repeating his memory of her voice: a chant he could not ignore. She let out her breath quickly in exasperation, and kept on with her petition.

"Fenris, please. We may not agree on some things, but it certainly has not impaired my respect for you," she said, peeved at his insinuating glare. Then she realized, and anger flared in her eyes.

"You cannot believe that I would sell you over Isabela! I'm not that weak of a woman. I would never condemn a man to slavery," she rose her voice at him, her tone throaty and biting. The logic hit him hard. She was too strong of a woman to have such a harsh reaction to his admission two weeks prior. If she had truly hated him, she would have killed him. It was too poetic to send him back to Tevinter, and she was too much of a realist. He shut his mouth, which had been forced open at his realization of his stupidity, and looked down at the covers on the bed.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, after a moment. "I should have realized," he submitted.

Fenris sighed, and clenched some of the sheets in his fist. Hawke moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to him, picking up the cloth that had been used to clean his cuts. Dipping it into the bowl beside the bed, she wrung out the extra liquid, and held it up to him, questioning. He nodded, and held out his arm. She dabbed it lightly, showing an extreme level of grace and delicacy for a woman who, just earlier, had felled corpses and demons with a five-foot-long blade. She tilted her head to the side, lifting up the cloth to inspect the cuts.

"I understand, Fenris," she said quietly, still attending to her work. "She is a very beautiful woman, and I understand her appeal. She is free, able to go where she wants on a whim. She is master of her own world. I wish you two the best," her mouth smiled, but her eyes did not. She placed her hand on his, squeezing his fingers lightly.

Her touch was electric. Her mouth moved as she spoke further, but no words registered in his mind. He lost all focus as memories rushed back to him. A year and a half ago, they had been here, in this room. It had been forceful, rough, dangerous. It was exhilarating. He watched her lips move now, entranced by the movement of them, her tongue licking them as she spoke even more. His eyes drifted down to her impeccably smooth, porcelain throat. He remembered her reactions at his kissing it, that one night. His heart beat faster, his vision blurred slightly. He drew breath more deeply. His eyes moved back upward, found hers. She had ceased talking. She was staring at him.

"Hawke," he crooned, gripping her hand tighter. "I never wanted Isabela. Not really. I was a coward, running from you. I thought it better that you hated me, but ever since it happened, I regretted it. I had so much guilt..." he stopped, and looked down. "I wanted to banish the memory, to forget it had ever occurred. Being with her just made me realize what mistakes I made. What I lost."

Her voice was ragged, "If you could go back, what would you do?" Her lips parted slightly.

"I would tell you how I feel," he said.

She leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper, "What would you say?"

He made no response. His hands were in her hair, pulling her closer. She rose to him, straddling the half-naked elf on the sheets that covered him. Their lips met, and in an instant, his mind had forgotten all coherent thought. His desire coursed through him, tore at his mind, lifting his stomach into his chest. Her nails lightly scratched his scalp as her tongue explored his mouth, mad passion fueling her. She nipped and bit at his lower lip, dragging it out with her teeth so she could catch her breath. He grabbed at her, pressing her to him, wanting to feel all of her. Stretching his neck, he reached up and grabbed her earlobe with his teeth, breathing hotly on it, and growled softly. He bit and tugged on the soft flesh, and she wriggled in his arms. Wrenching her ear away from him with a playful snarl, she latched again onto his mouth, pulling her midsection away slightly from his.

His hands found the cinch in the front of her robe and untied it, peeling back the soft fabric from her body. Her underclothes were missing. He detached himself from her, and found the spot he adored on her throat. A squeaking gasp came from the woman, and her nipples grew hard as she pressed herself against his chest. Her hands raked his back, digging into the flesh that covered the powerful muscles of his shoulders. She moaned then, and directed him again to her mouth. Moving with a flexibility that only aroused him further, she removed the covers between them, and unlaced his breeches, only parting with him once she had finished her task. She smiled at him, and rocked backwards, pulling his leather leggings off and throwing them to the floor. He winced slightly as he leaned forward, putting weight on his left hand, but he did not heed his brain's objections.

Hawke's calves were bent under her thighs, and she leaned back, grinning, bracing herself with her hands. Fenris made his way to her, crawling on the crumpled sheets, and reaching her, gathered her to him. His lay her down gently, his mouth finding one of the erect nipples of her breasts. He sucked, circling the hardened flesh with his tongue, biting down carefully on one, then moving to the other. He kneeled above her, and her hands found him, long and hard with anxiety. She pulled and twisted, wetting her palm with her mouth as needed. She arched her back to him, the curly hair near her core tickled him as it brushed against his abdomen. She lingered, feeling him with her muscles before settling back down on the sheets. The elf's long hand moved to her warm center, already slick with anticipation. He found the nub between her folds and started teasing it, pinching and tweaking the sensitive area. She moaned then, her hand slowing its workings as her mind flooded. The pressure at the base of his spine was beginning to be too much to bear.

"Oh, Fenris," she breathed, closing her eyes. Her hand began again, moving faster, pulling harder on him, yearning for him. He relinquished his hold on her breasts, and moved again to her mouth. He nipped her bottom lip, and played with her tongue, smiling as she squirmed beneath him. Releasing her mouth, he commanded in a low voice for her to get up. She complied, and he flipped her, sheathing himself as he brought his hands around to grasp her hips. He reached in front, found the small nub, and began working on it again. She squealed in pleasure, and bucked against him, quickening his thrusts and adding to the forcefulness of each one. Her back muscles rippled beautifully as she moved against him, bracing herself on her hands and knees, curling her feet around his calves. Her strong arms tensed as blood flowed more quickly, and her brain ceased all higher function. He stared at her, at the marvel of her. A wanton goddess.

All too suddenly, his mind ceased to function; the ferociousness of his climax tore through the doubt and guilt he had spent the last year building. She shuddered around him and cried out, the warmth she released a welcome respite from the cold emptiness that had been. She made small, satisfied noises as her brain registered the contentment that followed, and she pulled away from him, twisting to fall on her back onto the mattress. Fenris continued to kneel, mind still reeling from the events of the evening. Hawke smiled, and found his hand, pulling him down to her. He circled his arms around her, and she nuzzled into his chest, careful to avoid the cuts on his left arm.

"Your lyrium," she said after a few minutes, still breathing a bit heavily, "did it hurt?"

"No," he said. He hadn't noticed in the fervor of their coupling, but his lyrium had not activated. His memories did not torment him. As much as he could figure, it was what sex should be.

"Did you remember anything?" she probed cautiously.

"Is it custom to ask inane questions after such an act?" he asked, mildly annoyed.

"Well, last time those things happened, you left for a year. I'd rather that not take place again. I don't really want to murder Isabela after I killed the Arishok for her," Hawke quipped, a slight edge in her voice.

Fenris laughed, and parted from the woman just enough so that he could look at her. His eyes smiled as he bent his head and kissed her.

"I am not leaving, even if those things had happened. Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you. If there is a future to be had in this despotic city, I will walk into it gladly at your side," he purred.

Hawke reached her hand into his hair and tousled it between her fingers. Her other arm circled around his waist and she lightly drew her nails across his back, tracing his raised markings. She sighed happily, and rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes.

"I am yours."


	7. Chapter 7

Fenris watched Hawke's chest lazily rise and fall as she breathed. He was on his side, head propped up by his right arm, staring at her next to him. She was so at peace whenever he visited her. Their life had become routine in the past year. Hawke was called to numerous interventions with Orsino and Meredith, and none of the parties involved were outwardly—or inwardly, for that matter—thrilled with having to work together. Fenris had largely elected to remain out of the picture when those meetings happened, instead finding time to visit Varric about the progress with finding his sister. He never fully remained at the Hawke mansion, though he was there collectively more than any other place, his own home included. The weekly gatherings for gambling and card playing still occurred at his residence, however, versus either the Hanged Man or Hawke's large abode. Somehow, he felt that it was more right to have it at his place, as if the dilapidated and rundown mansion fit the group better than the polished one of the Champion's.

He trailed his fingers across her collarbone as she slept in front of him; feeling the smoothness of her skin against his callused digit was soothing. Knowing that she was there, for him, no matter what, somewhat eased the pain of the many betrayals in his past, his included. Isabela had become her old self around the couple, joking and jeering at them every chance she got. She never openly spoke of what had happened between the three of them, now that Fenris was firmly by Hawke's side, but he imagined she was writing some story in her head about an epic duel between the two females, and then the three of them all falling into bed together. Fenris chuckled softly to himself at the thought of an ink-stained Isabela with a quill in her hand, writing down their exploits.

"Mmm," Hawke mumbled in her sleep, a small smile gracing her face as some pleasant dream ran through her sleeping brain. Groping behind her, her brows furrowed as her fingers felt only the fine fabric of her sheets, and her eyes opened slightly. "You know I hate it when you stare at me when I'm sleeping," she said groggily.

Fenris leaned in and kissed her, lingering for a moment as she ran her fingers through his hair. His spine shivered, and his toes began to tingle as the blood in his veins flowed more quickly. He pulled back, and looked into her bright blue eyes. Though heavily lidded by sleep, her eyes were full of intent. He smiled at her then, and began to move his hand further down her torso.

She relinquished her grip on the back of his head, and used her leg to pull his lower half closer to her. Even through the fabric of the sheets and comforter, she could feel his reaction to her.

"Now that you've woken me," she started, but was interrupted by the elf. His hands now roved on her back as his lips found purchase on hers. She moaned slightly, and pressed herself harder against him, cursing the blankets and sheets. As if he read her mind, he pulled at the covers between them, and slid into the bed next to her.

* * *

Hawke settled back into a peaceful sleep afterward, but Fenris still couldn't sleep. He usually left soon after she fell asleep when he visited her, but lately the length of his visits had grown longer. Tonight, something was pulling him, telling him he had to leave his lover's side. As quietly as he could manage, Fenris gathered his armor, strapped it on, and walked out of her bedroom. Hawke's mabari growled slightly at the movement of the door, but ceased as he recognized the elf. Ser Bark, as Bethany had named him when she was a child, always slept in front of the door when he visited, cast out from his normal spot at his master's feet. While Fenris appreciated the loyalty the dog showed, he was not keen on having him watch his dealings with the lady of the house. Thus the mabari had been cast out from his former sleeping place.

Bending down to scratch behind the ears of the dog, Fenris crooned softly to the animal, and Ser Bark lay his head back down on the ground, closing his eyes. As Fenris walked down the stairs to the foyer, he heard the small ruffs of the happily dreaming mabari. All else was quiet in the house, and the fire burned low in the hearth in the living room. All glistened in the house since Hawke had hired the elven girl, Orana. He remembered balking at her original proposal to the employing the girl, but he admitted that she had done a fine job with the house, improving drastically upon Bodahn's version of cleaning, and Hawke paid her very competitively.

The house seemed emptier than normal. Even the soft barks of the mabari at the head of the stairs could not quell his feeling that something was off. He quickened his step, and listened at the back of the front door. No sounds. His ears must be playing tricks on him. He gradually opened the door, and was greeted with the familiar sight of Hightown after dark. The courtyard in front of the house was empty: the light of the waxing moon dimly lit the stone on the floor and walls, but it was enough to see. He went through the doorway, and turned around to gently put the door back in its closed position. Activating his lyrium brands, he reached through and locked the door from the other side. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and his heart now beat faster.

"Elf," a low voice said.

Whirling around, Fenris pulled the greatsword from his back, and induced the lyrium branding on his skin to glow. A snarl erupted from him, and then a sigh, as he shifted out of his battle stance.

"Andraste's ass, man, what's wrong with you tonight?" Varric scolded from the edge of the stone pillars that marked the entrance to Hawke's mansion.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you _not_to sneak up on people in the dark?" Fenris retorted, the left side of his mouth curling upwards.

"How would I ever have an advantage, otherwise? Dwarves move so loudly, apparently, your kind could shoot me without needing to see in the first place. So, darkness is my friend," he paused for a moment, as Fenris glared at him.

"Though scaring the shit out of you is quite enjoyable, sans receiving a greatsword attack, mind you, it's not what I came here for," the dwarf paused again, waiting to elicit a response from the elf. Gaining only a darker glare, he continued, "I found your sister."

* * *

Fenris paced in his mansion. She was alive, unharmed, and a servant just as Hadriana had said, but not in Minrathous. Now that he found her, he wondered if she would believe him. Would she come to see him? Could he even contact her? He sat down on the bench across from the hearth, bracing his elbows on his knees and crossed his hands in front of his mouth, fingers interlaced. He stared into the bright fire. The flames danced and fought with each other over their position in the fireplace over which one was higher or brighter. The wood spat and crackled as the flames wreathed it, burning, destroying. A loud pop sounded, and then two logs collapsed on themselves, sending out a burst of light and sparks.

He could not write to her. At least, not with his own hand. He had just begun to be able to read on his own, under Hawke's tutelage, but he had not yet advanced into creating the words for himself. Fenris had practiced on his own; papers riddled with scribbles and lines attempting to be the characters of the common tongue littered the floor next to his bed. Most were crumpled or trod upon, and almost none looked worthy of sending to a blood relative, even distantly known as she was.

Fenris growled then, resolute in his decision, as reluctant as he was to actually commit it. Collecting his greatsword from its resting place in the corner of his room, he quickly walked back towards Hawke's mansion.

* * *

Bodahn heartily greeted the elf as he walked through the front door, now unlocked with the beginning of the day. He could smell the toast and melted cheese of Hawke's usual breakfast, and found her in the kitchen, nibbling at her breakfast whilst reading letters. The kitchen was spare in furnishings and dismally grey, but well-stocked with foodstuffs, spices, and otherwise delectable materials. Orana had not given herself credit when she said she could cook as well as clean, and Fenris enjoyed almost his every meal here as a result.

Hawke was sitting at the work table, her breakfast carefully laid out on the plate atop the butcher's block. She made small noises and facial expressions at the words on the papers in her hand as he advanced towards her.

"Can you believe this? Says they could 'enhance' me. Blighted fools think I even _have_parts that need enhancing. Why are men the only ones who get to save the day?" She eyed him coyly, and picked up another piece of toast. Motioning with her hand, she offered him the last piece left on her plate. Fenris shook his head and started pacing, unsure of where to begin.

She turned then, crossing her right leg over her left, waiting for him to formulate the words. Hawke was well used to Fenris's obsession with saying exactly what was on his mind, and in the way he wanted to say it. When she annoyed him, he resorted to Tevinter, which only angered him further, until he became a blubbering pile of frustrated elf. Fenris knew she loved when that happened, which made him take more time to compose his words when speaking to her in a heightened emotional state. This was one of those times.

Both pieces of toast were gone by the time he had decided.

"I need your help," he stated bluntly. He could think of no other way to word it. She offered to help him with his literacy, and now was a need more close to him than ever. It was not simply for entertainment or personal satisfaction that he wanted her assistance, but a demand of his consciousness to communicate with his sibling. He _needed_her help.

"Of course. Did you find Danarius?" her voice was quick, breathless. She wanted to be rid of the fear of the magister as much as he.

"No. I'm not sure I ever will," his hands balled into fists, and his finger guards dug into his skin. "I found my sister."

"Is she okay?"

"I would assume so. She's a servant, just as Hadriana said, not a slave. I want to..." his words failed him as he attempted to explain his need. Hawke rose from her chair and came up to him. Placing her hand on his cheek, she searched his eyes.

"I understand. Let's get her here," she whispered.

* * *

The letter lay on the desk, ready. It was nearly midnight as they finished the words he wished to send to his sister, and Bodahn promised to take the letter to a messenger the next morning. Fenris had taken hours to attain the right wording—the right connotations to words and tone he wished to convey to his sister. He was so unsure, conflicted. It was dangerous, communicating with her. He did not know what ties she still had, or where her allegiances lay. Nine years had now passed since his escape from Danarius, with attacks becoming few and far between, and yet something told him the man still gave chase. Sending his name to the wind, to an unknown person, was nerve-wracking.

Hawke moved against him, curling further into his body as she slept. Her fingers were still stained with the ink from the many drafts and final version of his letter, and the pillows, sheets, and his hair now all had swipes of the black liquid. Fenris adjusted his arm across her waist, pressing against her more closely, willing her warmth to fill him, to ease his restlessness. Sleep tugged at his brain, but something else was still there, insisting he stay awake. He closed his eyes, arguing with the feeling to desist.

A courtyard beckoned him, surreally familiar, yet different. Moonlight filtered in through the leaves and branches of the trees that graced the square, painting designs on the snow-laced stone floor. Doors were all around, leading to different portions of the gigantic manor. To the left, it was the kitchens; to the right, the living and dining halls. Behind him lay the slave quarters, and in front...

A man stood in front of him, a grim smile on his face as he hit Fenris. Staggering, he fell, droplets of blood staining the snow below him. He looked at his hands. They were pure—without lyrium. They were the hands of a child. Cold laughter rang through the air as the man bent, picking him up by the closure of his leather vest. He did not resist. Fenris's mind flared, retaliating at the lack of free will on behalf of his child apparition. He kicked and screamed, fighting the man in his mind. But his body did nothing. He stared at the man, waiting.

"Fenris!"

A woman's voice. He was being held down. And up. It didn't make sense. He screamed again. Hands held his limbs, prevented them from moving. He bucked his hips to no avail. He twisted, but his attacker was strong and flexible. Light suddenly blazed in his eyes, blocking out his vision of the man. A cold laughter rang clear, then ceased. The hand hold on his chest desisted, replaced by a heavy pressure.

Fenris opened his eyes to see Hawke straddling him, yelling at her mabari. Ser Bark embodied his name well, and snapped at the elf, unsure of Fenris's intentions towards his master. She was breathing heavily, her stomach heaved with each breath, and a purple bruise was quickly forming on her side. Noticing his flailing had ended, she looked down at him, her face framed by the wild wisps of her hair. Worry commanded her features as she looked at him, searching for an answer.

"Are you okay?" she said finally.

"Yes. I..." he paused, "had a nightmare," he finished lamely. She renounced her claim on his arms, though he did not move them. His eyes flitted over to the desk where the letter to his sister lay. She followed his gaze, and sighed.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" she asked quietly.

"I must be rid of this. Since I learned of her existence, I've been plagued with thoughts of her, of my previous life. I cannot stay this course of action. It must be done."

She nodded, and sank back on her haunches, resting the majority of her weight on her heels. Fenris placed his hands on her thighs, absentmindedly massaging the smooth flesh.

"We'll deliver the letter ourselves first thing in the morning, then."

"Mmm," he conceded. He moved his hand up to the bruise on her side, gently feeling the muscles around it for damage. She winced as he applied pressure on the mottled skin. "Did I...?" he asked gingerly.

"Yes. That is the result of your nightmarish version of a wake-up call," she hissed as he kept feeling the bruise. "That hurts," she said as she slapped his hand away.

"I am sorry."

"Yes, well," she said, a lascivious smirk beginning to appear on her lips. Her eyes smiled darkly at him, as she rolled her weight off her heels and hovered just above him. Placing her hands on the bed on either side of him, she leaned forward, her hair tickling his ears.

"I know how you could make it up to me."


	8. Chapter 8

"Five weeks!"

"I know."

"_Five_ weeks! It only takes _three _to get to Qarinus and back."

"I know, Fenris."

"So, what's taking so long? Why hasn't your messenger come back? Something must have gone wrong," he said, exasperated. Varric studied the pacing elf, then took a swig from the mug on the table in front of him. Placing it back down on the table with a quiet thud, he laughed softly.

"You've waited for five _years _for Danarius to come after you, and you're anxious over this letter after five weeks? Give it time, elf. There may have been a storm, or perhaps my messenger's business is taking longer than usual. Tracking down an elven servant in a Tevinter city is hardly a small feat."

Fenris only growled in response, earning a smile from the dwarf. Getting up from his chair at the end of the long table in his room, Varric chuckled and patted the elf on the back.

"Don't worry, as soon as I know something, I'll tell you." Pushing gently, he led Fenris out of his room and down to the common room of the tavern. Fenris's head felt lighter as he went down the steps into the clamorous area.

"You coming tonight for Wicked Grace?" Fenris asked quietly, pausing a moment at the bottom of the stairs.

"Of course. I just hope you're ready to lose another five sovereigns." Varric's eyes twinkled.

"Just bring the cards. We'll see who comes out on top," he quipped.

"Ooh, I can guess. Hawke's got all those muscles for a reason." A sultry voice behind him told Fenris that a certain pirate had been eavesdropping on the last few lines.

"You're coming, too, then?" he asked of her, ignoring her last interjection.

"Certainly. I always come." Isabela winked at him and sauntered back to the bar for another round. Fenris heard a chuckle escape from the dwarf as the elf hung his head after her.

"Does she ever stop?"

"I'm not sure she could. The woman's impregnable," Varric responded, the corners of his mouth turning irresistibly upwards.

"Oh, not you, too," Fenris sighed.

The dwarf turned and waved a hand, lost in thought at the creation of a new line for one of his stories. Eager to get out of the putrid pub and into the somewhat cleaner air of Lowtown, Fenris hurried towards the door. Warm air burst on his face as he opened the door, and was momentarily blinded by the bright light of the high noon sun. Blinking furiously, he stepped out of the doorway and into the shadow of a nearby alley, allowing his eyes to adjust to the drastic change in light levels.

When he could finally see clearly, Fenris looked to either side of the main pathway and strode towards the market. Once he and Hawke had sent the letter to his sister, it was all he could do to not think about it. He had taken a few mercenary jobs in the meantime to distract him, but with every man he killed, he could only imagine he was getting that much closer to having enough money to bring her here. Half of him wanted to know of his past. He wanted to remember what it was like to have a family, and to not have the cares of the world on his back—when he was free to live, even if it was at a master's bidding. The other half of him was furious at the former's opinion, roiling and seething with the thought of appreciating that point in time, even if only for its simplicity and blithe indifference to the worries of the world. Fenris hated being so divided, but his curiosity could not be sated by theories and postulations. He had to see her. He had to know.

Suddenly, there was a man in front of him, but it was too late to avoid him. Fenris collided with feathered shoulders, and immediately regretted his ability to lose himself in thought as he walked. The blonde ponytail of the man shone in the sun as he bent down to pick up his dropped items.

"You could say you're sorry," Anders said as he piled the books in his arms.

Fenris only grunted in half apology to the mage and hurried past him.

"Fenris," Anders barked, stopping the elf in his place. Turning, he curled the right side of his mouth into a sneer, and snidely asked, "Yes, mage?" Anders only sighed, and shook his head slightly.

"I'm going to Hawke's," he calmly remarked, "She ordered these. Lirene imported them from Ferelden for her." The thought of Anders picking up something for Hawke made Fenris bristle with anger. He tried his best to push it down as he nodded in submission, and took half of the load of books from the other man. The letters on the bindings still looked incredibly foreign in the quick glance he stole to see just what she had purchased to read.

"Most of these are classics from Ferelden. _The Adventures of the Black Fox_, _The Legend of Calahad_, and then there's _The First Blight_. That one is about—" Anders started.

"The Tevinter Imperium and their invasion of the Golden City. I know," Fenris retorted sharply.

Anders scoffed slightly, but didn't reply, and kept walking up the steps towards Hightown. His eyes were fixed firmly ahead, searching the ground for loose stones waiting to trip him. His mouth moved slightly, as if he were attempting to compose a scathing remark back to the elf. Fenris couldn't catch any of the words, but started creating his own ripostes in case the mage did speak. However, the rest of the trip passed without conversation.

Anders was still lost in thought as they reached the door to Hawke's mansion, so Fenris reached for the handle. The door swung away from him, though, and a young boy flew out of the foyer with Ser Bark fast on his heels, barking madly. Both men fell to the ground, spilling the books everywhere.

"Stay out of my wardrobe!" Hawke screamed after the boy, eyes rimmed with mirth. She patted her panting mabari on the head, clicking her tongue softly. Looking down, she saw the disheveled pair of men surrounded by books and immediately began to laugh. She doubled over, placing her hands on her knees before crouching to begin picking up books.

"Your wardrobe?" the mage asked casually, raising an eyebrow at her and flicking his eyes towards Fenris. The elf opened his mouth to angrily refute the implied actions, but Hawke cut him off.

"A mabari is good for many things. The most entertaining by far, though, is his ability to corner a would-be thief in a box full of my casual wear and underthings," her eyes still shone with glee, and Anders returned her still-present smile. Once the books had been collected, she motioned with her head for the men to come inside.

Anders hesitated a moment, but after a glare from the Champion, relented and followed both she and Fenris inside. Once the door had close, Fenris's eyes had to adjust, yet again, to the drastic change in the amount of light in his environment. His mind had memorized the layout of her house in the none-too-small amount of time he spent here, but he still found his way carefully, not wanting to have the books fall for a third time in the past hour. Hawke led them into the library, where she placed the volumes on the nearest table, sorting them into two stacks.

"Thank you, Anders, for picking these up for me. I am surprised they came in so soon," she flashed a smile at the mage before collecting the two men's burdens and sorting those into the same two groups.

"Mm-hmm. I was there, anyway, on some... business," he said hesitantly.

"Yeah, I know what _business_," Hawke offered steamily. Fenris felt his face grow hot as he watched the pair. An inequitable look—almost one of fear, by Fenris's interpretation—passed over the mage's face before he changed into one of supposed comfortable aloofness.

"I have _no _idea of what you're speaking," he countered, a twinkle in his eye suggested otherwise.

"Mm-hmm," she muttered sarcastically, sorting the last of the books into its rightful spot. Two columns of six books each graced the table now, though there was no apparent order to the sorting by Fenris's standards. Of course, he had only ever been asked to stack them by their thicknesses, not by difficulty or genre. The fact that there could be other ways of classifying books than length was still a new concept to him.

Hawke turned then, facing the pair. Anders had stayed by the door, leaning against its frame while Fenris had found a chair that faced away from the hearth in the room. He hated the statue above the fireplace, and was wont to leave the room as soon as possible, but he was not about to let Anders be alone with Hawke. He absentmindedly played with the fastenings on his finger guards, running the tips of his fingers over the smooth leather face of the flat-sided laces, then dragging his nail along the rough edge of the same thick cord.

"When are you going to talk to him?" she asked of the mage, a faint hint of licentiousness in her voice. The mage chuckled, and in his peripheral vision, Fenris could see him shake his head.

"Isabela's rubbing off on you too much," he submitted. "I must get back to my clinic, Hawke. And away from your bad influence."

"Spoilsport," she jeered as he turned his back and walked out of the room. Once Anders had left, she walked over to Fenris, and ran her fingers through his hair. His scalp tingled with her touch, and he stopped fidgeting with his lacings.

"Come here," she said, taking his hand and pulling him from his seating position. Interlacing her fingers with his, she brought him to the table on which the books lay.

"I bought us some books. You're reading well enough on your own that I thought you might like to have these," she pointed to the left column, "to read on your own time, either here or at your place. These," she motioned to the right column, "are harder, so I thought we could move on to them together. Even I haven't read some of these, so it'd be a new experience for both of us."

"Anders told me they were from Ferelden. Are they stories from your home?" he asked, fingering the binding on the top book of the left pile. Hawke turned to face him, reaching under his tunic to lightly graze his back with her nails. He shivered in response.

"Some," she said, tracing the designs on his back with a knowing hand. "There are some of Tevinter, written in a bias you'd appreciate. Others are pure fiction, or somewhat based in truth, but not altogether biographical in nature." His tunic was now on the floor.

"Much like Varric's stories, then," he returned, deftly unfastening the sash at her waist.

"Mm. But these are not by him. I'm too afraid to find—" she gasped suddenly as she felt his hand tweak her erect nipple, "parts of _me_," she exhaled quickly, "on those pages."

"I know what you mean. He's been asking for details," Fenris whispered, connecting his lips to her neck. Her hands worked to free him from his breeches, though her nimble fingers were aching to be somewhere else entirely.

"That damned nosy dwarf," she sighed, relishing the feeling of his tongue on her earlobe. Her fingers stroked his hips and thighs, grazing over his lyrium brands, lightly trailing her nails on them, tracing the markings. They stood together, feeling the warmth from each other grow until their fingertips tingled and nerves strained for release.

Pushing the closest stack of books into the one behind it, then forcing both further down the table, Hawke moved away from him, her robe open. Backing up slowly, her eyes were fixated on him as she closed the door to the library. Fenris stared at her, picking up his left foot to pull his pants from around it, then doing to same with his right. Fenris's heart beat impossibly fast, and his vision narrowed to just the woman standing in front of him. She smiled at him, dared him to make the move towards her, as she leaned against the closed door of the library. Her fingers roamed across her body, cupping one full breast, then moving down towards her navel. She circled it once with her finger before teasing the dark hair further down on her torso. Fenris stared, enraptured by her teasing of him. The base of his spine was taut, and he ached to be stroked, but he kept his hands at his sides, clenching the muscles in his legs. He mentally chained himself to the spot so that he would not rush over and take her.

Hawke's fingers disappeared into the forest of curly hair at the edge of her body, and he could see the tension rise in her posture. Her eyelids flitted and her breath came faster and harsher as she worked on herself. He could barely stand it, and his right hand moved towards his member, lightly gripping and squeezing it. Seeing his inability to control himself, she worked more fervently, anxious for the release that was building in her system. Losing all hope of waiting, Fenris pulled on himself, a wave of pleasure hitting him blindly, and he lost himself in it. Opening his eyes again, he focused on Hawke, who had moved to sit on the table near him in his brief moment of lost eye contact. Her eyes burned, threatening him to cease his actions, willing him to delay his release, demanding him to claim her.

He obliged at once, pressing her against the edge of the table, and roughly kissed her. Her fingers worked themselves into his hair, and her arms clasped about his neck. She moved eagerly against him, rubbing the bottom half of her body against the tip of him, sending jolting messages to his brain. His tongue danced in her mouth, and she followed suit, wrapping hers around his then pulling out entirely so that he had to chase her. Fenris breathed heavily against her, surprised at how much the delayed gratitude had increased his need of her. He briefly wondered if the jealousy over Anders had added much into the equation when he felt her around him. Ecstasy flooded his mind as he moved within her, pure instinct and hormones drowning out all other thought. She moved with him; her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusted into her, quickly coming to the point in which he would lose all conscious ability to think. Hawke's cleft contracted, a sign that she was close to her end. He rolled his hips to penetrate her deeper, and he felt her shudder with her release. He stifled her cry by kissing her again, and followed her into oblivion.

Consciousness returned moments later as he and Hawke remained joined on the library's table. They both panted, kissing each other gently as Fenris, still a commanding presence within her, gently teased her swollen flesh with his cock. She breathed sharply inward, and her nails dug into the skin on his back. He smiled, and finally withdrew himself from her, earning a final gasp from Hawke. Beads of sweat adorned her face as Fenris stared down at her, unwilling to relinquish her just yet to the world.

"Messeres, your normal bath time is approaching; would you like me to heat the water?" Orana's excruciatingly timid voice thinly called out from the other side of the library's door. Turning her head towards the door, Hawke giggled and replied, "Yes, thank you, Orana."

Once the footfalls had disappeared from sound, she faced Fenris again and whispered, "Maker, that girl has impeccable timing," and pressed her forehead against his. Their breathing had now returned to a normal pace, and Hawke kissed him again before carefully wrapping her robe around her. Fenris dressed in only his breeches, folding the rest of his clothing and armor so that he could clean them later. Hawke opened the door to the entrance hall to find that Bodahn and his son had politely left the room, and only her mabari remained, curled up in front of the fireplace, twitching in his sleep.

Fenris watched her disappear behind the wall towards the bathroom, and then gathered his clothing to put in her bedroom. He had, now, an area in her bedroom that was solely his. Since their relationship had begun again, he had placed his armor in a specific place in her bedroom each time he had visited. After an unfortunate incident with a pair of his leather breeches and Ser Bark, a chest in which to place his clothing had been one of the first things to be added to the area. Now, he had accumulated a small desk and chair in addition to the chest. It was all he would ever need of her space, but it was comforting to the elf that she had given it so willingly and without ceremony.

Closing the top to the chest, he stood up and made his way towards the entrance hall. Bodahn and Sandal had spontaneously reappeared—another feat of impeccable timing, or listening skills, he mused quietly—and the elder dwarf politely smiled at the rather inappropriately dressed elf.

"Messere? There's a dwarf here to see you," he said as Fenris came down the stairs. He nodded in thank you to the dwarf, and entered the foyer. Varric had his obsession out, frowning over a scratch on Bianca's bow iron. Hearing the accession of the elf into the room, he replaced her on his back, patting her lightly before turning to fully face Fenris. His eyes had not the usual glimmer of mischievousness or cheer, and his mouth made a firm, straight line across his face.

"You have news," Fenris stated bluntly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"My messenger came back. Your sister is not in Qarinus," Varric paused, hoping to elicit a response from the elf. Garnering no response, he continued.

"She left Magister Ahriman's service, but has moved to Minrathous," the dwarf twiddled his fingers nervously, and finished, "she's a mage."


End file.
